


This Masquerade

by el3anorrigby



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: M/M, Pining, Pre Slash to Slash, Some angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-12
Updated: 2015-11-12
Packaged: 2018-05-01 07:14:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5196995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/el3anorrigby/pseuds/el3anorrigby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Illya knows from the start he had been right to despair after Napoleon had kissed him. The moment he couldn’t get that kiss out of his head, even weeks after it had passed, Illya knows he’s in trouble. </p><p> <br/>This is a continuation of this drabble <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/5177915">Promiscuous</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	This Masquerade

Illya knows from the start he had been right to despair after Napoleon had kissed him. The moment he couldn’t get that kiss out of his head, even weeks after it had passed, Illya knows he’s in trouble. He feels a bit unnerved at how easy it had been for Napoleon to mess with his head. It had been that one kiss. And Napoleon’s words, _‘Sorry about the kiss, Peril. It won’t happen again’_ has not helped him either. Prior to that, it had been so easy to work with him. They still do work exceptionally well together, but it gets increasingly harder for Illya as time goes by.

Sometimes when Illya thinks about the kiss, he isn’t surprised that Napoleon had thought of it as the only way he could have saved him that day. Because this is Napoleon, and Napoleon is an exhibitionist. His moves are meant to display the control he has over people, it has to be over the top, to attract attention and he’d gotten exactly what he’d wanted that day when he’d saved Illya. Unfortunately for Illya, it had come at the expense of his sanity. He wonders if he had ever considered Napoleon before this? Had he ever looked at him the way he is looking at him now? He wonders if he will ever get answers to the questions swirling in his head.

Fortunately for Illya, he doesn’t have to wait long. Istanbul, where their next mission takes them to, is where it all climaxes, where it all comes to a head. 

After returning from his lone reconnaissance job in the city, Illya slips the key into the lock of their apartment door and ease it open. The place UNCLE has leased for their assignment this time around isn’t a large one. It has two bedrooms, a bathroom and a kitchen that opens up into the living area. The furnishing isn’t extravagant, just the way Illya likes it although Napoleon might have a different opinion on it, and the huge windows overlooking the sea gives it a bright, open appearance. Illya feels he has to make the best of this place, even though staying with Napoleon, alone, because Gaby isn't around for this mission for the next week or so, would be a challenge in itself.

The silence of the empty living room is welcomed as he goes about putting the groceries he’d managed to buy from the shop away. Istanbul during the summer is hot and sticky. Illya realises this as he feels droplets of sweat trickles down his back, sticking his shirt to his body a little uncomfortably. He goes on to turn up the air conditioning, feels the cool air on his face, giving it a little relief from the prickling heat. Illya loves Istanbul but the summer heat is something he can definitely do without. 

Deciding to change his sweat soaked shirt, he makes his way to his bedroom but stops short as he passes by Napoleon’s room. The door is slightly ajar and when Illya takes a peek inside, his heart is suddenly in his throat. Napoleon’s on the rocking chair facing the window, his feet up a footstool with his eyes closed and lips slightly parted, bathed in warm golden light from the sunshine filtering into the room and for a few seconds Illya can’t help but stare at the sight before him. His chest feels tight, fills with warmth and a few other things he could not describe. 

Working with Napoleon, Illya has learned to deal with a great number of things and if he is to make a list of it, it would be a very long one indeed. As a trained KGB agent, he is not a pure ascetic as compared to Napoleon’s clear hedonist ways. His self discipline is always put to the test by his partner’s extravagance and self gratification. He is sometimes drawn to it like a moth to a flame, the pleasure seeking bit, and this scares him. It scares him because Napoleon opens him up, easily makes him lose self control.

Another thing that terrifies Ilya is ever since they are partnered together, Napoleon has taught him the meaning of fear on a whole different level. The fear of lost, the fear to feel love and being loved. Napoleon gives him the sense of anticipation, of surprise, of indignation. He overwhelms and consumes him at the same time. He puts Illya’s soul in chaos, but at the same time he puts it at ease. In short, it is not easy being Napoleon Solo’s partner. Illya lets out a resigned sigh. 

When Napoleon stirs in his seat, Illya is pulled back from his wandering thoughts. He glances at the time, realises it is already late afternoon and knowing they need to start work soon, he decides it is best to wake him up. He walks over to him slowly.

“Cowboy, nap time is over. Get up.” 

Illya gently nudges his shoulder. The dark haired man then blinks his eyes open, lets out a hum before stretching on the chair, lazy like a cheshire cat, a grin adorning his lips as he looks up at Illya. “You’re back.” His voice is low and rich and hearing it does crazy things to Illya’s insides. 

“The groceries are in the kitchen,” Illya says, tries to ignore Napoleon’s distracting smile. “You can start making dinner soon. We need to go out at eight.”

Napoleon huffs as he stands on his feet. “You are very demanding, Kuryakin.”

Illya doesn’t say a thing, turns at once to leave but Napoleon stops him by tugging at his arm. 

This is the bit where Illya dreads, every time they touch, he feels the obviousness of his feelings just shows on his face. Napoleon isn’t stupid, he’s brilliant in fact, and he must have noticed it, must have seen it written all over his face. Perhaps the only thing that’s stopping him from saying anything is his pride, his ego. Perhaps he is waiting for Illya to say it. Perhaps this is his test to see if Illya is capable of admitting that feeling of strong emotional attachment that is currently brewing underneath his skin.

“What is it?” Illya asks after a moment, tries his best not to sound anxious. Napoleon’s hand is still on his arm, the pressure slight but still enough to make his heart beat a little faster. Napoleon lips quirk into a smile.

“I was thinking how about I don’t cook dinner? How about we go out to some fancy restaurant in the city and then straight to work afterwards? How does that sound?”

Illya wants to decline and say _‘No, we cannot do this because we are here to do our job’_ but this is Napoleon’s way of taking the pleasures while and whenever he can and he’s asking Illya to do it with him. 

“Come on, we’ve plenty of time, Peril. What say you?” Napoleon asks again.

“But if you don’t want to, it’s also fine with me,” he quickly adds in when Illya remains quiet, a hint of disappointment apparent in his voice and this pulls Illya out of his reverie. 

“Illya?”

And just like that, with those hopeful eyes and slightly downward turn of his lips, Napoleon takes away his self control. 

“Okay,” Illya finally mutters, agrees, because despite what his mind says, this is what his heart really wants.

 

***

 

They both go to a fine Turkish restaurant, located right on the Bosphorus in an Ottoman-era boat dock, in the shadows of a medieval fortress. The atmosphere is as inspiring as the food is reliably delicious. During dinner, Napoleon realises Illya had seemed a little too quiet for his liking. 

"You okay?"

Illya simply nods. "Yes."

“This is a timeless fish house frequented by Istanbul traditionalists. These people know the city’s culinary traditions, Peril. And so you know, it’s not easy to get a place here but I’d managed it,” Napoleon explains as he drinks his raki, a traditional flavoured Turkish alcoholic drink. Illya eyes narrow at his partner as he tilts his head back, sipping his drink in. 

“This entire thing must cost a fortune. If we'd had dinner back in our apartment, it would have been just as delicious,” he mutters lowly, his fingers tapping at the empty glass in his hand. His remark however brings a soft smile to Napoleon’s lips. 

“So, you do admit I’m a good cook,” Napoleon says and then winks at Illya as his grin widens. Illya only rolls his eyes at his shameless behaviour.

“Do not push your luck,” he retorts. Secretly, in spite of his annoyance, Illya is enjoying Napoleon’s company. Still, he does feel a little out of sorts at the extravagant setting Napoleon had chosen to bring him to. Sensing Illya’s uneasiness, Napoleon leans in and runs a comforting hand up and down his arm. Illya almost flinches at the contact, wonders if Napoleon's had a little too much to drink. 

“Are you drunk?” he asks. Napoleon shakes his head.

“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m not, Gaby. Now that girl can’t hold her liquor.”

Illya can't help but chuckle at the thought of Gaby drunk. And surprisingly that’s the first time they’ve mentioned her ever since they'd arrived in Istanbul. 

“I guess you’re right about Chop Shop girl.”

“Of course I’m right," Napoleon says.

Glad that Illya has loosened up a bit, Napoleon then gives his partner one of his most disarming smiles. “Relax, Peril. How often do we actually get to do this, eh? We deserve this for all the hard work we’ve done for UNCLE." 

Illya averts his gaze from Napoleon’s eyes to his father’s watch. He caresses the strap with his fingers. “I’m not sure if Waverly will approve of this. We still need to complete our work. Don’t forget.”

“Of course we do but we need a little morale boost, Illya. That is what we’re doing right now."

Napoleon brings his glass up in a toast, and Illya shakes his head at his partner. “You’re insufferable, Cowboy.”

“And that’s why you enjoy my company.”

Hearing that, a little alarm goes off in Illya’s brain. He looks up to see Napoleon’s eyes on him. He wants to say something but his brain just fails to cooperate with his mouth. No words could come out and Illya ends up simply staring at his hands on the table. 

After they finished their meal, Napoleon orders another bottle of raki. Illya says it’s not a good idea to drink because they need to be sober for later but Napoleon had insisted, and in the end they move to a private booth, just the two of them, sitting and drinking and the entire thing just surprises Illya. Because he thinks he is being braver than he has been for the past couple of weeks. He’s not sure if Napoleon had noticed he’d been trying to avoid him outright. Though this situation, where the mission requires them to be together without Gaby, will not be helpful enough for Illya to give out any reason if Napoleon ever brings the matter up. 

While they’re enjoying their drinks, Illya doesn’t talk much, lets Napoleon do the talking because he would rather watch him, noticing all the little details that are Napoleon. Illya drinks in everything before him, how Napoleon's eyes crease when he smiles, the way the first button of his shirt is currently undone and his tie is loosen up. He notices how he swirls his drink around in the glass, the way his fingers run through his hair when he gets a little bored, and how the specks of brown in his left blue eye takes the breath out of Illya. Little by little, the sight before him starts to overwhelm him and he isn’t sure whether the alcohol has affected his system. Seconds later, Illya quickly excuses himself to the restroom to get a breather. Once inside, he splashes some water on his face, to calm his racing heart and when he lifts his head to look in the mirror, Napoleon is already standing right behind him. Illya turns to face him at once.

“Cowboy? What?”

Illya is nervous when he sees Napoleon's questioning look.

“Are you alright? You look a little flushed.”

This is not good, Illya thinks. Napoleon is starting to suspect something. Quickly he starts to think of an excuse because the last thing he wants is a confrontation from the American at the most inopportune moment. 

“I’m fine,” Illya answers rather unconvincingly. There is a beat or two before Illya realises Napoleon has closed the gap between them. His hand reaches out, curling his fingers on one of Illya’s shoulders.

“Solo,” Illya warns, his breath hitching and then without warning, Napoleon is pulling him in, his mouth hungry upon his. For a moment Illya is stunned, rooted to the spot. He looses himself a bit in the kiss, doesn’t care if anyone is to walk in on them in the restroom, because he has been craving for _this_ for so long. But before it could get very far, that little sane voice in his head starts to question, asks him what the hell he is doing right then. Does Napoleon really want this, want _him_? With all of his willpower, Illya then pushes Napoleon back, untangles his arms from around his neck. 

“Illya?” Napoleon questions, his breathing a little ragged. “Why?”

Illya backs away and then scowls, putting a defensive stance between them. He wipes his lips that are still tingling from the kiss with the back of his hand. “You think this is funny?”

Illya isn’t sure what kind of games Napoleon is playing at the moment. There is a flash of hurt in the American’s eyes and if Illya had noticed it, he quickly dismisses it as soon as he'd seen it. Napoleon swallows, rakes a hand through his hair. 

“But I thought—”

“You think you can always get away with what you want?” Illya cuts him off before he could finish his sentence. Illya’s voice sounds harsher than he intends, and his words just go straight into Napoleon’s head.

“I’m sorry, it’s just that I, I thought you wanted—"

“Well you thought wrong, Cowboy. I don't want anything.”

Illya's words are like a hard punch to the stomach. Napoleon almost reeled back hearing them. "I'm sorry, Peril." 

Illya continues to glare because he is afraid and alarmed. Obviously Napoleon has noticed his want for him. He has noticed it and Illya feels he is using it to his advantage. And Illya is not going to admit to him just because Napoleon is acting on a hunch of what he thinks Illya is feeling.

“Look, we need to get to work, and listen, we never mention about this again, Solo. We forget about this,” Illya says, his voice rough and hard before he walks out, leaving Napoleon a little dumbfounded, a little shaken, and alone in the restroom. Taking in a deep breath, he leans against the wall and closes his eyes as he recalls the entire incident in his head.

“Yeah. Ok, then, Peril, if this is what you want,” he mutters lowly to himself. Slowly, he looks at himself in the mirror and lets out a cynical smile. 

Napoleon, the master con man, thief extraordinaire, who’s never learned to care about anyone, has actually thought he’d be able to make Illya, a person who possesses fierce loyalty, someone who does not lie to himself and never has, to actually feel something for him? For the first time, Napoleon has stripped his persona off of him, wants to show Illya his true self and Illya cruelly rejects him. The moment he had kissed Illya way back then, Napoleon had thought it had been merely an act from his part to save his partner’s life but he realises day after day that he needed more, needed more than the kiss, he needed Illya. He’s seen Illya’s looks and stares and he had figured the feeling was mutual. Obviously he’d been wrong and today Illya has indeed proved him wrong. 

Rejection is never good, it stings. And for a person who’s always used to getting what he wants, it hurts like no other. 

Straightening himself, Napoleon exits the room and puts his mask back on, the one he normally wears, as he braves himself to face Illya once again. He finds the Russian waiting for him, standing by the cobblestone path just outside the restaurant. Napoleon nods his way, gestures for him to start their reconnaissance and walks ahead of him like nothing has happened between them not a few minutes earlier. Illya’s hands trembles. He tries hard to still them, knows this isn’t the time for him to show his vulnerability. They still have a job to finish and he intends to complete it like the good agent he is. And he’ll push this episode with Napoleon aside, knows he's done the right thing as he tries his best to cast it out of his mind. 

Looking at Napoleon, it seems he is doing just fine himself, like nothing has perturbed him and it irks Illya how this thief, this liar could easily get under his skin. 

 

***

 

Illya finds Napoleon standing by the side of Lake Colby, throwing stones in the water, sometime in late November. After their mission in Istanbul, Napoleon had requested for some time off work, citing very personal reasons and Waverly had let him go much to Illya’s chagrin. When he came back to work, he’s quickly assigned to another team, and Illya knows Napoleon had planned it all, he’d done it in order to avoid him. But Illya couldn't be angry at him for he knows it had been his own doing. He had driven him away and after being apart for months had made him realise the utter fool he’d been to both himself and Napoleon. He'd been lying to himself. Illya has his flaws and so does Napoleon, and he feels only they can heal each other and only Napoleon can make him whole again.

When Illya hears Napoleon is in New York, working on a case with the CIA, he specifically had asked Waverly’s permission if he could have some time off to meet him there. With a little help from Gaby, Waverly had agreed and disclosed Napoleon's location and that is how he finds himself standing by Napoleon’s side, wrapping his arms tightly around himself in the cold weather. 

“You would be the only one crazy enough to be out here in this weather.”

Napoleon looks up at Illya, not entirely surprised to see him there. Perhaps Gaby or Waverly had alerted him about his impending visit. New York is certainly cold this time of the year and in truth Illya knows Napoleon hates winter. He had told him once, says it reminds him too much of suffering and death. Illya had chastised him, saying how he takes everything too much as a metaphor.

“It’s not that cold, Peril,” Napoleon finally answers, eyes now back on the lake. He’s about to throw another stone when Illya’s hand grab at his wrist. He runs a fingertip on the length of Napoleon’s palm, opening his hand and the stone falls to the ground. Napoleon lets out a shuddery breath.

“How did you find me here?”

“Like I always do, Cowboy.”

Napoleon raises an eyebrow. "Trackers?" 

"Nyet. Gaby and Waverly. They helped."

Illya is the master of withholding complex emotions, but he is baring it now for Napoleon to see. “Your mission is over?” Illya asks quietly, with a hint of nervousness in his voice. Napoleon nods. 

“Yes.”

Illya hesitates for a moment. Napoleon’s hand is still wrapped in his. 

“Waverly is going to team us up again,” Illya says after a moment. Napoleon only shrugs. “Yes, he'd called to tell me this. And I’m guessing it’s your idea?”

“I think it is a good idea.”

Napoleon lets out a dry laugh, and then he eyes Illya, the way only Napoleon could. And Illya thinks of the moment as cruelly romantic. He has missed him tremendously and as he stands there before him, Illya can’t help but think how the moment is always so perfect when they are together, no one else, just him. Fate is making a mockery of him, like destiny is having a joke at his expense. Dangling him an inch out of his reach, knowing if he doesn’t grab hold of this opportunity again, it is going to mess and kill him if he’s not going to do anything about it.

Without thinking, Illya grabs both of Napoleon’s arms as he is about to pull his hand away and he kisses him, cold lips colliding, soft and rhythmic. Unlike the first time when it had been passionate but chaste, unlike in Istanbul when he had wanted it but it had been too damn confusing. This time, nothing confuses him anymore. This time, the kiss is soft and languid and their tongues tangle together, caught in an endless dance. 

“What happened to forgetting?” Napoleon asks after he pulls away for a breather. He takes a step back and sits on a bench overlooking the water a few feet away. Illya sits next to him, his shoulder brushing against Napoleon’s a second later.

“I was wrong. This is what I want,” Illya murmurs, admits painfully. He almost expects Napoleon to say _‘And you think this is what I want now after what you’d done?_ ’ but thankfully he doesn’t. He doesn’t say anything for a while.

“Cowboy, I’m sorry. Forgive me. I’m a fool for not knowing what I want then.”

“So, what is this then?” Napoleon asks as if it's suddenly important to him, enthusiastically even, as if it's some new adventure they are about to embark on. Illya can't help but smile. He then tilts his head, cups a hand on Napoleon's face, leans in and kisses him again on the lips. 

“It's whatever you want it to be,” Illya whispers. 

He feels Napoleon’s raging pulse under his hand. The seriousness in his blue eyes tells Illya he’s not allowed to fuck things up again. He then leans his forehead against Napoleon's, their breaths mingling; Illya's is calm and comforting, Napoleon's is a bit rushed, almost like he is trying to force himself to calm down, but Illya can feel the insecurity radiating off him.

“I won’t leave you,” Illya mutters. He feels Napoleon nod and Illya needs to hear his assurance just the same. “And you can’t ever leave me again. You can't.”

“I won’t.”

Illya pulls back slightly and looks deeply into Napoleon's eyes, making sure his message gets across. As he gently brushes his lips against Napoleon’s for the third time in the space of many minutes, he can feel the other man relaxing under his hands, letting out a deep sigh of relief.

"я люблю тебя," he whispers against him and is answered with demanding lips on his, the intensity leaving him absolutely breathless and he doesn't regret anything he has ever sacrificed and done for this man.

He knows exactly where he has got Napoleon. Napoleon just needs a reminder of where he has Illya.

Right in his heart.

**Author's Note:**

> Since Illya needs to revisit the kiss, I decided to write this fic. It was intended to be a drabble as well but the story just got longer..hope it is okay. 
> 
> Fic title inspired by an oldie song 'This Masquerade' by George Benson.
> 
> "This Masquerade"
> 
> Are we really happy here  
> With this lonely game we play  
> Looking for words to say  
> Searching but not finding  
> Understanding anywhere  
> We're lost in a masquerade
> 
> Both afraid to say we're just to far away  
> From being close together from the start  
> We tried to talk it over but the words got in the way  
> We're lost inside this lonely game we play
> 
> Thoughts of weeping disappear  
> Every time I see your eyes  
> No matter how hard I try
> 
> To understand the reasons  
> That we carry on this way  
> We're lost in a masquerade


End file.
